


a moment

by bemusedbicycle



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 12:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11943798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemusedbicycle/pseuds/bemusedbicycle
Summary: When news of Viserion reaches Winterfell, Jon takes Daenerys aside to grieve. [a jon x daenerys fic, set just after the season seven finale]





	a moment

**Author's Note:**

> I have fallen into this fandom and am in deep. I would say help, but there is no helping me at this point.

She doesn’t question him as he leads her silently to his quarters, hand hovering just over the small of her back, unwilling to touch her only to have her recoil from him. He’s not certain he could bear it, if she were to reject his physical affection. Not today.

Her quiet should be indication enough of her mental state, silent and shuffling at his side, curled in on herself and seeking the cover of shadows cast by his flame. He’s never seen her look quite so small, chin tucked into the furs about her neck – firelight dancing along her porcelain skin.

The woman, instead of the queen.

The grieving mother, instead of the fierce conqueror.

He’s not gone to her since the truth of his heritage was revealed, nor she him. It’s perilous ground between them, the both of them unsure of where they stand with one another. He’s ashamed of himself, ashamed of his inability to control his own impulses when so many are depending upon them both to be focused. If this new truth proves anything, it’s that he never should have gone to her in the first place.

Though despite it all, he can’t bring himself to regret it. Not any of it. That night on the boat, nor their travels to the North. When she had crawled into his tent under the cover of darkness and pressed her body to his. When he had loved her with his tongue and his teeth and she bore his marks beneath her fancy skirts and heavy furs, a blush staining her cheeks whenever their eyes met over the fire.

So lost in his thoughts of her, he doesn’t realize they’ve already traveled the length of the castle. She waits until he unlocks the door, pressing it open and allowing her to pass before she says a word. Her shoulders slump further, arms wrapping around herself and cupping her elbows, her gaze fixed on a spot just above his shoulder when she turns to him.

“What is it you want of me?”

He shakes his head, places his lantern on the table. “Nothing, your grace,” the words, they lodge in his throat and stick on his tongue for there is a great many thing he wants from her – starting with the way she bites down at her bottom lip when she is beneath him and panting, and ending somewhere with his heart in her hands. But now is not the time for such thoughts, and he clears his throat and straightens his back, hoping just this once his emotions are not so plain upon his face. “I thought perhaps you could use a moment to yourself.”

It looks as if she might argue with him, fire in her eyes and her chin lifting in defiance. He holds her gaze despite it, reaching behind his back and locking the bolt of the door into place.

He’s watched her all day hide her heartbreak behind her fury, the line of her jaw clenched in silent pain, her hands curled into fists. Duty does not allow for grief, this he knows, but he wants -

He only wants to help.

“No one will disturb you here, and we won’t speak of this again. You have my word.”  

She blinks at him, the fight leaving her slowly. Her body trembles, and his hand aches to reach out and draw her close. Instead, he curls his fingers around his sword belt and turns his back, granting her the privacy that comes in short supply when there is a crown heavy upon your head.

He counts his breathing in an effort to distract himself, counts the etchings in the wood beside the doorway. It is silent for an immeasurable amount of time and then he hears her breaking quietly, her sobs nothing more than soft hiccups.

She did not break when the Night King first killed her dragon. Not when he fell from the sky nor when he sunk beneath the ice. She did not weep when she sat at his bedside, choosing instead to focus on her fire and fury. Her pledge to destroy the Night King and all that march with him.

But this is another matter entirely.

Her child, transformed to a monster.

He keeps his back turned until his shoulders are stiff and her sobs have turned into soft and shaking inhales, each of them pressing into his skin like shards of ice. He counts those instead, and feels a bit of himself settle. There is no guard at his door, no reason for her to be interrupted while tucked away in this part of the castle. She will be left alone for as long as she wishes - for as long as she needs.

“I will be patrolling the walls, should you need me.”

Her voice is rough when she speaks. “You’re leaving?”

“I’ve already stayed too long,” he supplies, guilty and shamefaced. He meant to grant her privacy as soon as they were in his quarters, but his own selfish desire to see to her stayed his feet. “I apologize for imposing, your grace.”

She huffs a mirthless laugh and he turns slightly, catching the shine of tears on her cheeks in the moonlight that filters in through the window. “You offer me respite, and yet apologize for the imposition. You truly are a maddening man, Jon Snow.”

He frowns. “Apologies, my queen.”

She doesn’t respond, merely regards him from where she stands at his bedside. He’s struck by the sudden thought that he wishes to see her in it, her silver hair spread across his pillows and her pale skin tucked beneath furs. But he dashes the thought as soon as it rises, unbidden.

He should not allow himself such luxury.

“Your queen,” she repeats, nodding to herself quietly. Her eyes are red and swollen, her cheeks blotched with pink. She is vulnerable here, in a way he hasn’t seen before. “What happened to Daenerys?”

He searches for the words that do not come, and she doesn’t wait for his answer. Instead she reaches for the ties at her throat and discards her cape to the floor.

“Your queen commands you to stay,” she mutters, exhaustion in the lines of her face and in the breath beneath her words. She falls into his bed with no further direction and pulls the blankets over her shoulder. It’s impossibly better than his imaginings, yet he stalls at the door.

“Please,” she whispers after another moment, bright eyes peering up at him through the darkness. The lantern has burned low, and he is so very tired of holding himself back.

“As you command,” he responds, his fingers clumsy with his own fastenings. He’s careful to keep his shirt and breeches on, careful to keep his distance when situated in his pallet, but she cares not for any of his precautions. She reaches for him, her palm pressing beneath his shirt to his heart.

“Thank you,” she sighs, and he allows his hand to trace the length of her arm, over her shoulder to the small of her back. He tucks her close, and brushes his lips against her forehead.

It’s only a moment, after all.


End file.
